Frosted Glass please R&R
by DuosFrost
Summary: Set 15 years after Harry's graduation, the world has changed. New DDA teacher at Hogwarts with a dreadful secret (that hasn't changed), a Voldemort revival cult, luscious Severus Snape, need I say more?
1. Prologue

Prologue

"I can't thank you enough, Albus," Olivia Frost said gratefully, her voice subdued with weariness. Her diction was flattened with a slight European accent, but other than that, she spoke with confidence and aplomb, betraying no other hint of her German background.

"Olivia, please, it's no bother at all," Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, dismissed her gratitude kindly. "You're doing us a favour by agreeing to teach here!" 

In all frankness, Albus had been consumed with worry for months. Olivia was his oldest friend in the world, and he had heard through the grapevine that she was in some sort of inescapable situation involving the DRC, the Dark Resurrection Corps, some new and mysterious Voldemort revival cult. He had no idea about it further than that, which attested to the impenetrable nature of the thick shroud of secrecy that surrounded the group. However, Albus knew instinctively when Olivia's life was in danger, even though they'd been out of contact for decades, and instinct was all the motivation he needed to do something about it. And so… he offered her an opportunity to disappear for a while. Besides, it was good to see her again. Remarkably good.

"You look … well," he lied, smoothly changing the subject. In fact, she had never looked so worn out, and her once magnificent long auburn hair was now a colourless, pallid shade of white-blonde, and cut severely straight just past the shoulder. Her slender frame looked leaner than usual, and the drab black and grey she wore did nothing to disguise it, as well as accentuating the paleness of her skin. He knew that she couldn't physically age, but her forest green eyes had lost the sparkle of joy that the two used to share, once upon a time.

"There's no need to lie to me, Albus," she replied, smiling a sad half-smile that would dazzle when in full bloom. "We've known each other way too long for any of that. I look hunted, which is exactly what I am." She sighed. "I had to come by broom, and flying over the Channel must have made a mess of my hair," she continued, mock-seriously.

Albus smiled. She hadn't changed. "How is it with the… the cravings?" he asked delicately. He knew there was no danger, or he would not expose her to the students in that way, but with the stressful situation she had lived in for so long…

"They will pose no problems," she replied, sitting up slightly. "I find it is easier to control with age. Speaking of which, you're looking positively ancient!"

He laughed, stroking his beard. "I prefer dignified," he replied. "I haven't been blessed with your remarkable lineage…"

"Blessed!" she exclaimed, suddenly annoyed.

"Forgive me," he apologised quickly, mentally kicking himself in the shins for being so insensitive. "I forget how it must be… in my old age, as it were…"

"Well, the aged are more liable to making mistakes," she reproved softly, standing up. "It's very late, my dear old friend. I'm afraid I must be getting to bed before I collapse."

"Of course, of course," he answered. "We have a whole six weeks to insult each other," he smiled. They stood, almost awkwardly, unable to look at each other. "It certainly has been a long time," he said, his tone hushed. She looked so tired of it all… Albus couldn't help himself, and as he drew her into his arms, she began to sob quietly. He stroked her hair as she buried her face into his shoulder in shame.

"I'm sorry, Albus," she murmured, choked with emotion. "It's taking such a toll, sometimes I pray for death..."

"No, Olivia," he replied, drawing her closer to him, tears of his own welling up behind his glasses. "You still have a job to do, a destiny to fulfill. You must wait for death to come to you, you cannot go chasing after it…"

"I know, I know," she disengaged from the embrace, wiping her eyes and smiling sadly. "I…sometimes, I feel as lost and powerless as a child."

"Olivia, you are older than me!" he reminded her gently. "And infinitely more powerful, you know that."

"But I came running to you," she said ruefully, pinching the bridge of her nose in a characteristically Olivia-like gesture.

"No, I invitedyou, _implored _you to come," he replied. "This distinction must be made..." He put a brotherly arm around her slender shoulders and guided her to the fireplace. "But come, we can talk more anon. Both of us need our sleep, in our dotage, as it were." He considered a moment. "Although you seem to be wearing it a lot better than I," he added, considering the ninety-two year old woman who stood beside him, looking and sounding for all the world if she was no older than thirty.

"I never did like the idea of 'dignified'," she answered, with a smirk. They shared a quick smile, before she stepped into the fireplace, and then, with the proverbial puff of smoke, she disappeared.

Albus collapsed into an overstuffed armchair, removing his spectacles and passing a weary hand over his eyes. He wondered whether bringing her here was a sensible thing to do, considering their tumultuous past and… the other attributes of her personality, but immediately dismissed the thought from his mind. She was in a precarious position, and he would never forgive himself if something happened to her while he was more than able to give her aid. Anyway, he was getting very old, very quickly, and once this DRC threat was sorted out, he needed someone in line to take over his position as head of the school. She was more than qualified, limitlessly more capable and wiser even than himself… but would she be willing?

"We shall she what we shall see," he murmured aloud to himself, suddenly tired of all of the seriousness. "But right now, I'd be more than willing to see about a sherbet lemon or three… how about you, Fawkes?"


	2. Chapter One: The Story Begins

Chapter One

Summer Holidays. Usually Severus Snape hated that phrase, and all of the blithe connotations that went with it, but after two whole decades of Master-ing Portions at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had come to treasure those blissful six weeks, away from constant nattering, bickering, gossiping, away from explosions by inept students, away from endless term papers, away from all of it. Of course, not too far away. Hogwarts was his home, and he was getting a little too old to spend his holidays abroad. He'd seen enough of the world as it was, and he'd rather stay in his isolated little quarters away from the majority of humanity for six weeks than go out in the thick of it, thank you very much.

Severus yawned and closed the book balanced on his knee with something akin to gratefulness. His eyes were tired from digesting all of the atrociously boring information about some horrible Muggle from far in Germany's past.

"A Muggle repeat of the Dark Lord," he yawned, speaking aloud. He removed half-moon spectacles from his hooked nose with one hand and rubbed at his choked eyelids with the other. 'I could do with a pick-me-up,' he thought, reaching into his bottom desk drawer for a Perker Potion (which was becoming more and more necessary as time and boring classes wore on). He retrieved only an empty flask, and, annoyed with his negligence, threw it away in disgust. The offending instrument soared across the room, bounced once and shattered into a million pieces with a satisfying tinkle, right in front of the closed door. He mused on the broken glass for a few seconds, sadistically ruminating over whether to invite a particularly irritating Hufflepuff he knew for a walk across his floor, barefoot of course, but then remembered bitterly that it was the holidays. Instead he flailed his hand and the glass disintegrated into sand, and with another flick of his wrist, into dust, and then with a final wave, the dust blew out the door, left in a neat pile for the custodian to deal with.

'Perhaps I could quit my office for a while and tend my garden plot,' he considered the possibility. His milkyweed had been receiving a lot of attention over the past few days, but Severus wasn't really into gardening. The real reason his milkyweed were flourishing was because his garden plot was in the courtyard adjoining the Dark Arts wing, and people could be quite discreetly observed as they bustled up and down the open corridor. The fact that the only inhabitant of the DA wing at the moment was the enigmatic new DDA teacher, Olivia Frost, with whom Severus had developed something of an obsession, paid no mind to the fact that his milkyweed were the healthiest specimens to be found in the whole Hogwarts area.

He abandoned that idea when he noticed Minerva McGonagall bustling up the corridor on his side of the courtyard. She also had decided to stay at Hogwarts for the duration of the holidays, but for some mysterious reason of which Severus was unaware. 'I hope she isn't coming to see me,' he thought, exasperated. He picked up his wand with every intention of locking the door, but as he did, he spied a sickle and a rolled up piece of newspaper in her hand and a larcenous twinkle in her eye.

He crept up to the open doorway, carefully concealing himself out of her line of vision.

"Severus? Are you in?" Minerva called softly through the doorway in her ridiculous Scots accent. She was employing a tone that suggested she was hoping he wasn't, in fact, in, and that she could take that opportunity to discreetly prune his milkyweed for her own purposes. After a moment, having received no reply, she rubbed her hands in anticipation and chuckled conspiratorially to herself. Severus chanced a peek around the doorframe, and was caught full-on with a vision of an ample tartan-clad behind stuck straight up in the air, as Minerva began her larcenous transgression.

"Ah-hem."

"Ooh!" exclaimed the tartan enigma, shooting a full six feet into the air, losing her instruments of robbery in the milkyweed patch. "Severus, you mangy old crow! Isn't it about time you stopped flapping around corridors and sneaking up on old ladies when they're trying to make your garden look nice!" she continued, quickly regaining her composure and almost perpetual irritation.

"Aren't you dead yet, Minerva?" he replied icily.

"No, Severus, clearly not," she shot back.

"Then let my milkyweed alone, you daft Scots fruitbat!" he growled. Severus and Minerva enjoy playing.

"Don't get your knickers in a knot, Severus," she huffed, replacing a greying strand or three back into the customary face-stretching bun. "All I wanted was a cutting."

"Obviously," he replied. "But you don't know how to do it without getting bitten, I see."

Minerva hastily hid a wrinkly bleeding finger behind her back. "Well, if you don't want to give an old woman a hand..." she shrugged, laying it on thick.

"Oh all right!" he threw his hands up in disgust. He didn't really mind, of course, but he and the Gryffindor House mistress had been scrapping and snarling at each other for so many years that it had become instinctive. They were, in truth, quite fond of each other, but neither of them would ever admit it. "How about I show you, so you won't have to attract my attention every time you try and steal one of my plants, hmm?"

Minerva McGonagall unleashed the full power of her incredulous glare upon the Potions Master, affecting him not. Severus bent over and wiggled his fingers over the pod heads of the snappy blooms to distract them while he snatched up the paper and the sickle.

"Are you watching closely now, Minerva?" he began to get that dreamy tone that happened every time he began to work. Twisting the ex-Prophet into a cone, he gripped the sickle ominously. He started to croon softly, and all of the pod heads twisted around to listen in his direction. He droned a little louder, and the pods seemed to wilt a little. When he began to hum tunelessly, the buds began to seriously droop and bow. When all of the heads were bent double, Severus scooped one of the sleeping buds in the cone and sliced it neatly at the base. He handed the cone gently to Minerva, and discreetly pocketed the sickle.

"Why do they do that?" Minerva murmured in wonderment.

"The vibrations affect them," he hissed in reply.

"Extraordinary," she muttered, eyeing the 'sleeping' weed head.

"Put it in a jar of water in the darkness for two days," he whispered. "When it grows another head, you can plant it in soil. Keep it well watered, and it'll thrive. Now go away."

She turned, wide-eyed, away from the Potions Master and crept slowly down the corridor, bearing her prize with something akin to awe.

When she had disappeared into the gloomy darkness of the Dark Arts wing, he withdrew his own prize from his pocket and examined it closely. A serviceable instrument, nothing fancy, but sharp and in good condition. Severus approved. A small etching on the blade caught his eye – HR Wendwiddle Gardening Instruments, Hogsmeade. HR Wendwiddle?

"What a ridiculous name," he murmured aloud. He retreated back into his office, pondering his own collection of garden tools. A lot of them were in poor condition, most of them old enough to be deemed double-antiques and quite a few were lost in the realm of Severus Snape's Infamous Bewitched Cabinet of Doom. He stood in the centre of the room, turning the sickle in his hands. He mused on what else he needed. New socks... his old ones were more hole than wool... another crate of assorted imported reds from the dodgy back alley stall behind the quidditch supplies... 'Need to stock up on grindlewort, blacony root, Roc feathers, merrywhittle, powdered conch, swamp-dragon bile…' Severus finally reached a conclusion.

"I believe it's time for my annual trip into Hogsmeade," he announced to the empty air, tapping the sickle once upon his palm in a decisive fashion.

Draping his plain, hooded, black cloak over his shoulders and clasping it at the neck, Severus took his broom in his hand and stepped up to the French window balcony of the Slytherin tower, supremely lonely in its emptiness. The Potions Master had always prided himself on his legendary unflappability, but he was having a hard time keeping himself under control. It had been almost five years since his last broom-flight, as he had seen no desire or demand to umpire quidditch or travel anywhere long-distance in an undetectable hurry, preferring instead to take the floo or apparate to wherever he needed to go. And so, understandably, he was a little apprehensive about flying. He had decided on impulse to use his broom, rather than the more conventional modes of transport, entertaining some romantic notion of the soft summer breeze ruffling his hair as he watched the sun go down over the horizon, or some such similar codswallop.

The advertising for the new Nimbus 3004 series B had obviously gotten to his head, being splashed all over the daily tabloid, the Magical Junket (Tragical Junk, as Severus referred to it), as it was.

Banishing all thoughts of Tragical Junk advertising from his mind, he stepped up to the twisted iron railing and mounted his old Firebrand with customary silky grace. 'I'll be fine as soon as I'm in the air,' he thought, and, with a final agitated breath, kicked off from the hard stone.

Severus hovered over the balcony, his ancient broomstick giving an exploratory 'hic', and a burst of triumph gushed through him. 'As easy as the proverbial piece of cake,' he thought euphorically, feeling about twenty-five. He sped a wide circle around the tower, and, finally assured of his own abilities, shot off in the direction of Hogsmeade with his flapping black cloak and the long forgotten sound of delighted laughter trailing behind him. 


	3. Chapter Two: An Unexpected Pleasure (unf...

Chapter Two

The Three Broomsticks was anything but alive on a Tuesday night, but even so, Severus still commanded the obligatory hush from the patrons of the public house as he swooped darkly through the doorway, his arms laden with oddly-shaped packages and bags. The fact that the only customer at this time was the droopy regular Sleeping George, and that Severus had picked the exact silent moment between snores to enter the bar, was of course irrelevant to his imposing and startling entrance.

Once the moment was past, the door closed behind him with an annoyingly hearty jingle, complimented by a thunderous wheeze by the slumbering champion of the Three Broomsticks, and Severus sought his usual drinking place, the shadiest table in the shadiest corner of the darkest part of the pub. He plonked his cargo, bursting with herbs, spices, bits, pieces and socks onto a tall chair, and then slid into a chair of his own. Severus anticipated no invasion on his dark corner, especially not from Sleeping George, as Sleeping George was still, as his nickname subtly implied, asleep, undisturbed by Severus' grand appearance. No-one actually knew what Sleeping George's real name was, because he had never been awake long enough to tell anyone.

**editor's note.. as yet unfinished!! Stayed tuned but, kids. Coming soon.


End file.
